Maybe There's Hope
by forbrighterdays
Summary: And for once, he's the one doing the work; he's reaching out. Sure, it was his fault to begin with, but Nate Archibald is finally doing some growing up of his own.


I've been trying to get back into writing regularly, so consider this my reintroduction. It's just a quick little fic about one of my favorite Nate/Blair scenes in Nate's point of view. Dedicated to Nicole and Fatimah because they've been pushing me to write it from the beginning.

**Maybe There's Hope**

It's been a long day.

Grueling, torturous, and tedious. A typical day on the Upper East Side.

You're a fuck up.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Blair is a saint – an angel. Absolute perfection. You are completely unworthy.

You've been lying on her bed for the past twenty minutes. Just lying. No talking involved. When did you ever need words?

Scratch that; when did you ever learn _how _to use your words?

You don't deserve her.

The room is silent. There has been no form of communication exchanged between the two of you since Dan and Chuck's throw down at brunch and Dan and Serena's departure, at which point, Blair turned to you and said, "_so are you coming home with me, or what?"_

But she didn't say it in a snippy way. She phrased her question like she knew she had been defeated; and in a small, sad voice, the words came out. She asked you if you were going home with her in a way that made it seem like she had no idea herself.

And Blair Waldorf always knew the answer to each question that came out of her mouth. Why would she bother scripting the movie of her life if she was just going to end up disappointed?

Her persona still demanded your attention and respect, but behind her fiery eyes and ruthless vengeance, you could see that she was just tired of it all. Underneath it all, you caught a glimpse of the girl you had fallen in love with so long ago. The girl who was still in front of you, only now more beautiful and passionate and loyal.

And dammit if you didn't still love her.

These thoughts – your feelings – are what prompted you to nod your head in consent. You can't find the right words. Words that will make this all go away, but she doesn't expect you to. At least not yet.

She sighed heavily and led you out of the hotel and to the nearest waiting cab.

Once you arrive at her apartment building, she wordlessly grabbed your hand and dragged you through the lobby and into the elevator and up the stairs of her penthouse. Once you make it to her bedroom door she droped your hand, leaving you to fend for yourself when it comes to your next move.

She didn't turn the light on, but her open drapery let in a serene light from the Manhattan skyline. She gracefully walked across the room and stopped at her bed, taking off her shoes and climbing onto the bed.

She lay on top of the sheets with her backside facing you. She paid you no mind, and you stood awkwardly at the threshold of her room, not quite knowing what to do.

Finally, you decided to join her on the bed.

She let out a small sigh as you shifted around so you could be facing the same wall as she was. You never touched her, but you were close enough for comfort.

And that's how you ended up here.

"Look Blair," you finally say tiredly, "either you try to forgive me and move on, or we end it."

It's all for formality. If it's one thing your parents did right with you, it was teaching you manners(although the cotillion and etiquette coaches did more of that job than your parents did, and you know the majority of the time your _manners _can't be found, but nevertheless, they're there). None of that matters now though, because you're stepping up. You won't keep her trapped in this relationship if it's not what she wants anymore.

Sometimes you wish she would just leave you, if only for a second, just long enough for you to repent and not feel ... well do guilty about... everything.

So if this is the only capacity in which you can do something about this relationship and seem like you have the upper hand in all this for once, then you won't let her take that away from your too.

You know you don't deserve her; never have, never will, but dammit if that means you won't reach out and try to keep her within your grasp.

And then you reach out for her. Literally pick your pathetic hand up from the bed and place it on her shoulder.

It's almost as involuntary as any other time you touch her. _Almost._ It's like a squeeze of her hand just because you like how it fits into yours. Like a kiss on her check just because she's beautiful and she smells nice and you love her. Like your arm being draped around her body as you walk in the city because it could be cold or you might just want to keep her close to you.

But no, this touch is different.

This touch; this feather light hand to her shoulder – it has just enough pressure to let her know that you still want her, but not enough so that she doesn't feel as it your presence is smothering her – it holds meaning. It has a significance that you can feel, and miraculously; so can she.

"_Don't let me go," _you call out in your mind. _"Take my hand and I'll never cause you sadness or pain again. I'll care for you. I'll love you. I promise."_

And it's almost as if she can hear your mind; as if she can clearly read the thoughts going through that pea brain of yours, because suddenly, she's holding on to you too.

Her hand grasps yours tightly and you can feel all the strength she is putting into her hold.

"_I'll never let go." _Her grasp replies.

You look down at your hands – her small one resting over your lager one – and at the ruby ring on her ring finger; the ring that you gave her so long ago.

There are no words exchanged in this moment – the two of you have never really depended on verbal communication – but you know you are forgiven. You can feel it in the way her body has relaxed under your touch. A weight has been lifted off your shoulders. You are – not exactly free, as you were never a prisoner, only a sufferer – but abled. Better. You can _breathe _easily.

You smile as she inhales and exhales, working her way into a slumber as the faintest hint of a smile taints her perfectly rosy lips.

"I love you, Blair Waldorf," you whisper into the night. "I always will."

You do, and it's not a lie. And you want to make things right with her. Tomorrow morning you'll get her up and take her somewhere special and buy her something. And then maybe, sometime in the future, you'll say those three little words that she wants to hear the most, but you'll say them so that she can hear them. So that you can see the way her face lights up as you know it will. Because you'll be making her happy.

Maybe there's hope for you yet, Nate Archibald.


End file.
